


Lovely Teeth

by hisokun



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Fluff, M/M, pure hisoillu, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-09 23:29:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5559976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hisokun/pseuds/hisokun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He sees the sun. He sees the sun. </p><p>Cigarette Teeth sequel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lovely Teeth

**Author's Note:**

> All right! So, this is the (real) ending to Cigarette Teeth. I was suddenly inspired by this post break-up post on Tumblr and decided to write this. I know that most of you guys hate me for making Hisoka end up with Machi. But, well - I guess this is the ending that you guys really deserve. 
> 
> Is this a happy ending, you ask?
> 
> Why, yes. It is.
> 
> (Edited.)

Lovely Teeth

 

(Two years ago)

 

There’s something melancholy to waking up to an empty room, Hisoka knows, because when he flutters his eyes open, all he can see is a ghost.

The morning is still dim, the clock on his nightstand blinking 5 a.m. Cold air is uncomfortably clinging to his body like a second skin, making the hair on his arms rise up in unfamiliar greeting. Hisoka’s golden eyes are lazily catching the light strewing from the windows, balancing through the small sift of the curtains where the sun unevenly glows. Hisoka blocks the light streaming like needles on his face, ignoring the burn of the empty space beside him.

He stares at the ceiling for a moment, feeling the soft fleece of the blanket wrap around his feet. But to his left, he feels nothing but the bare breath of where Machi used to sleep. His hand roams the spot where Machi’s body used to sink in in the evening before she left, his eyes unable to stray away from the ceiling as if every memory they made is there.

Now, all Hisoka can touch is the skin he used to kiss every morning, the lips that mended every bruise and every heartbeat, the parts of her she never really wanted him to keep, and all the pieces of his heart that she’d given back to him. He closes his eyes and lets the pain howl in the cove of his ribs. _Maybe,_ he thinks, _that’s why she finally got up and left me_.

Slowly, he sits up and gets out of the bed, letting his feet quiver against the chilled morning air. He finds himself looking at the clothes still on the floor – his favorite t-shirt that Machi used to love wearing; the socks Machi bought for him last Christmas, with strawberries printed at the seams; and the matching shirts they wore that Hisoka designed himself.

Another pang enters his ribs, his breath catching in his throat until he can no longer stop himself from choking.

Hisoka gathers the clothes in his arms and puts in the hamper – half full now, with only his clothes found. He walks to the connecting bathroom. There’s only one toothbrush, with his toothpaste gone, along with the birth control pills in the medicine cabinet lurking above. He doesn’t bother to find her perfume bottles. He knows he’ll only smell a hint of what’s left of her, but he’ll feel the entire presence of what’s already over.

He turns the faucet open, letting the water descend into the pipelines as he stares at his reflection. He splashes a handful of water into his face, trying to get of the flashing burn curdling in his chest. And then, he proceeds to the kitchen, where Machi’s keys are sprawled on the table, along with the keychain he personally made for her when he tried making sculptures.

The keychain is in the shape of the sun, golden brown and glinting under the faint and ghastly light. Hisoka carefully grabs the keychain and stares at the back, where _be my moon_ is delicately carved.

He turns it over, brushing the smooth pad of the sun with his thumb, and then he places it back on the table, fisting the keys in his palms. Hisoka veers to the side, viciously aiming the keys towards the kitchen wall, unfortunately hitting the unclean batch of mugs.

Hisoka breathes hard, slices of his heart clenched into one, staring at the bits of her he can never have back.

She leaves no note, just the conspicuous absence of what he already lost.

 

~***~

 

(Two years ago)

 

On the very rare occasion that Illumi gets to see his brother, they usually have their monthly meetings in the coffee shop Milluki absolutely adores. The interior is slightly small – somewhat the size of one of their bathrooms in the mansion. The tables are all made of mahogany wood, tiny stools barely fitting his long build. But Illumi supposes that Milluki is finding it harder to sit himself, considering that his brother has only grown ever since he started college.

He slices a small portion of the cake he’s ordered and takes a bite, letting the strawberry melt right into his tongue. Milluki watches him with intent, his eyes never straying away from Illumi’s lips as if he’s found something intriguing. Illumi stares back at him, placing the fork on the plate before he finally gives in.

“What is it?” Illumi asks. He settles his elbows on the table and links his fingers together. He hides his lips behind his interlaced hands. “You seem to be observing me.” Illumi shouldn’t have questioned that, but Milluki isn’t very observant.

His younger brother purses his lips, his already small eyes getting smaller in the process. He takes a chug of his coffee with tiny droplets smudging his chin. Illumi looks away in distaste, shoving a whole batch of tissues right in his brother’s direction.

“Please,” Illumi begs in disgust. “Please be a little more hygienic when you’re in my presence.”

Milluki can’t help but laugh at Illumi’s reaction. He accepts the napkins and takes a careless wipe on his face. “Mother has been at my back because of it. I think she’s irritated because you’re no longer there to remind me.”

“Well,” Illumi mutters, spreading his fingers in mockery, “isn’t that a pleasure? I’m sure mother misses me dearly. Unfortunately, I cannot reciprocate her feelings, seeing as she’s the only family member I can’t bear to speak to.” Illumi has been meeting with Silva on even fewer occasions, but better than nothing as well. Kalluto has even rarer opportunities, not that they have anything to talk about besides the family business.

Illumi has been free of his duties every since he ran away from the mansion. Being the heir of the family is now just a previous title – something he can dwell on during nights he can’t manage to sleep. Of course, Milluki will never be fit for such a big responsibility, which leads to the youngest member of the family. Kalluto is still younger, barely in her teens, but Illumi is sure that she can handle it. After all, she’s always been mother’s favorite.

“How was the last concert?”

Illumi blinks at Milluki’s question. He looks down at his cake, dropping his fingertip into the icing and licking it off his skin. Milluki also seems surprised by this action, and Illumi is as well – a little bit. Hisoka once told him that the best taste of something is in the surprise the follows after. Illumi still holds on to that, as Illumi has held on to the rest of what Hisoka has left him.

“It was fine,” he says. “Quite exciting. I didn’t know many people would love to hear me play.”

“Well, of course they would,” Milluki laughs. He stabs his fork into his big slice of chocolate cake and munches on it eagerly. There goes another batch of napkins thrown at him. “You always play with feelings, big brother. Doesn’t Hisoka like watching you play?”

A short silence fills them as Milluki acknowledges his mistake too late. Illumi has already accepted the blow in his chest.

The corners of Illumi’s mouth twitch, a strangled voice nearly escaping him when he opens his lips. He takes a struggling breath and swallows the lump stuck in his throat. He clasps his fingers together again, bringing his hands closer to his lips, blocking his face from Milluki’s vision.

He feels the same residing ache in his ribs – a familiar feeling that he can never seem to remove from his teeth. Illumi’s heart throbs at the sound of Hisoka’s name on Milluki’s lips. He finds himself wondering if Hisoka still thinks about him, if Hisoka still knows what Illumi tastes like beneath the sheets.

“No,” Illumi says, looking at Milluki, “he probably doesn’t.”

 

~***~

 

(One year ago)

 

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think you’re actually interested in this.”

Illumi Zoldyck can only stare at her from where he’s sitting. A wine glass is perfectly balanced in between his fingers, the red liquid swirling in the curve. The color is exactly the same as her dress – fitted against her body like a second skin, thin straps holding the garment together as her breasts squeeze in the fabric. This woman is the third date Illumi has had ever since his brother made it a point to be his annoying little cupid.

Their mother is probably helping as well, considering that this woman is the only heir to their company – a rich business focusing on different investments in different countries. Of course, even if he’s already moved out of the mansion, even if he has already made a life without her permission – she’s always going to find a way to dig back into his skin.

She’s always going to fit herself into his ribs, as if she’s a demon he can’t bear to erase.

Despite that, his date’s presence itself isn’t a bother; in fact, Illumi finds her quite intelligent despite her current attire. What really makes him agitated is how her hair looks like the color of blood, how her eyes are made of copper and immensely close to gold, how Illumi finds Hisoka in her face even though he hasn’t seen the man in so long.

“No,” Illumi says, tipping the wine glass to his lips. “I’m simply not interested in dating.”

“Not interested in _dating_?” the woman’s mouth curves into an amused smile. Illumi can’t seem to remember her name. “Or perhaps you’re just not interested in _me_?”

“Consider it what you will, but I’m afraid that you’re not able to catch my full attention.”

The woman – maybe Kanade? – slices her steak into tiny pieces, stabbing one of them with a fork and bringing it closer to her open lips. “How cruel of you to say it so boldly,” she murmurs, swallowing her piece down her throat. She grabs her wine glass and brushes the rim against her mouth. “Is this how you usually talk to your dates?”

Illumi catches a delicately rolled piece of sushi in his chopsticks. He blows on the steam before he inserts it into his own open lips. When he’s finished, he dabs his mouth with a napkin. “If I were trying to impress you, I wouldn’t be so rude. But you already know that I’m not attracted to you at all.”

“Again with the insults,” the woman muses. “I do have a question, though. One you must answer honestly.”

“If I don’t find it appropriate, however, don’t expect anything.” Illumi waves his hand, gesturing her to proceed. “But please, go ahead.”

“Are you gay?”

The question almost makes him choke, the food he’s swallowed nearly wheezing back up his throat. But the moment he latches on to his senses, memories flood him, a vague sense of familiarity darting in his ribs. He’s been asked nearly the same question, by a different person, years ago.

Illumi remembers how Hisoka sat next to him on the bench, his red hair glinting like it’s holding every secret. He remembers how Hisoka’s eyes were the color of the sun when it’s about to go back to rest, how his voice was as raw as the promise he’d never kept. He remembers wanting to touch Hisoka’s skin, as if it held every part of him that Illumi never got to kiss.

He remembers Hisoka asking if Illumi was interested in anyone – and how Illumi almost said his name.

He remembers the taste of it, the sound, the shape. He remembers the way Hisoka left him, as if Illumi were ink he’d never use on the palette.

“Mr. Zoldyck?”

The woman’s calls rears him back out of his thoughts, and Illumi blinks to find his hand reaching over to the woman’s face. His fingers are trembling, his breathing unsteady.

He remembers thinking how the sun looked different.

“I’m sorry,” he says, drawing his hand back to curl it into a fist.

He remembers the first time they kissed.

“It’s fine,” the woman hesitates. “Are _you_ fine?”

He remembers how it felt like he tasted everything he ever wanted in Hisoka’s teeth.

Illumi’s breath hitches, his eyes unable to break contact. “I’m fine.”

He remembers the first and last time they had sex.

“But why . . .?” the woman bites on her lower lip. “Illumi.”

He remembers how Illumi felt like Hisoka had been giving his heart to someone else.

“Yes.”

He remembers that he had already lost Hisoka – right in that moment, right on that beach.

“Why are you crying?”

He remembers –

“I don’t,” Illumi whispers, finally feeling the tears strained on his cheeks. “I don’t know how else to love him. I don’t know how to be what he needs.”

He remembers –

“I don’t know,” Illumi says, his heart gripping like the sea. “I don’t know how he left me so easily when I can still taste him on my teeth.”

He remembers –

_“Where,” Illumi whispers, “are you hurting?”_

 

~***~

 

(One year ago)

 

“Hisoka, tell me again why you’re here.”

He doesn’t look up from his sketchbook, he barely even makes a sound as Professor Wing enters the room. His fingers are splayed across the page, his pencil gripped in between his fingers as he makes a rough draft with only the parts he can still imagine. The lines are wobbling and slightly smudged. But the structure of the face is correct, and the perfect bow of his lips is drawn in delicate precision.

Hisoka can now close his eyes and imagine the cliff of _his_ cheekbones, his jaw, as if Hisoka still has him memorized like he used to before. He rips the paper from the pad when he’s finally done.

“Is it so wrong for me to be here?” Hisoka says, clipping his sketchbook shut. He turns to Professor Wing with an innocent smile, secrets tucked in the corners of his mouth. “Maybe I just missed you and wanted to visit.”

Professor Wing looks at him drily. He’s carrying two boxes in his arms as he stares at his former student. “You’ve been coming here three days a week,” he points out. “I’m pretty sure I won’t miss you that much, considering you’re rarely absent.”

Hisoka only lets out a warm laugh as he gets up from his seat. He easily snatches a box from Professors Wing’s weight, placing it on the table before getting rid of the tape. Professor Wing follows his lead and uses the scissors to cut the tape in half. Inside the boxes are cans of paint, different colors adorning the tin. Hisoka has the same amount of collection back in his apartment. Professor Wing once told him that he somewhat changed over the year, but at least he’s still painting – the one promise to Chrollo he was able to keep.

“You’re not even a student here,” Professor Wing continues. “I thought you weren’t planning on studying again after you graduated.”

“I’m not,” Hisoka replies. He grabs a paint can from the box and settles it on the table. He’s jealous of all the art students Professor Wing has under – he kind of misses the old man’s lectures. “I’m here for fun.”

“Fun,” Wing repeats. “You’re never at school for _fun_.”

At that, Hisoka’s mouth opens for another short laugh. “Why do you doubt me so much?”

“Because I know that you’re hiding something, and I’m curious.”

Hisoka’s hands stop moving. His smile stays in place, frozen like a blizzard in the middle of a mountain. He finds his gaze waning back to the window, where his eyes are immediately attracted to the person sitting on the bench below. That man’s professors call him a prodigy – one of the youngest talents they’ve known who makes it so easy to play an instrument. Students mention him as someone they never bother to talk with, a man they can hardly consider a friend.

But to Hisoka, that boy sitting on the bench with his music sheets resting on his lap, the douse of his black hair tied to back of his head, his eyes the color of the moon when it’s about to glow – that boy is the only ghost Hisoka still can’t seem to let go of.

Illumi Zoldyck has been studying in the Liberty of Arts for about two years now. When Hisoka heard that Professor Wing was going to transfer to this specific school, he couldn’t help but sneak in every time he could. Hisoka has been secretly wondering about how Illumi is doing, if he’s still under the control of the Zoldycks, if Illumi still thinks about him, if there’s a minute or a second that Hisoka’s name passes on his lips.

Even when he and Machi were still dating, he always found himself searching for Illumi in his ribs. Even when he loved Machi in a way he never loved anyone else, his hands were always hunting for the way Illumi Zoldyck used to unnaturally fit into him before he left. Even when he thought he’d already moved on, his fingers were painting Illumi’s cheeks, his neck, his lips – all the parts of Illumi that Hisoka took with him.

And Machi knew that. She knew that Hisoka was still dreadfully in love. She knew that she couldn’t handle being with a man who could never run away from he what should have left behind.

Hisoka stares at Illumi Zoldyck until the man gathers his things and begins to leave. He holds on to the remaining seconds, the shortest heartbeats. And then, he faces Professor Wing, knowing that the man has already unraveled his pain.

Professor Wing slowly cranes his head to look at him, his fingers gradually letting go of the can he’s holding. He doesn’t notice until the sound makes him flinch. “Does he know?” he says. “Does he know that you’re still . . .?”

He doesn’t bother to finish the question. He swallows the bitter taste rooting in his throat as he finally puts the paint can on the table.

“I think,” Hisoka says, his heart throbbing in his ribs, “I’d have to love him as a friend.”

 

~***~

 

(Now)

 

Hisoka still has an undying hatred for coffee – café shops included in the list.

Although, on certain moments where his urges force him to push through that abhorrence, and ignore the strong and bitter taste curdling in his nostrils, Hisoka actually enters the coffee shop with sheer determination. He quietly marches to the counter with his handkerchief pressed against his nose. Others look at him and take a sniff at their shirts or armpits, as if they’re the ones causing his nostrils to flare. The man patiently waits for the line dissipate, waiting for his turn to finally order the one thing he wants to eat for the entire day.

While Hisoka hates coffee with his entire – equally bitter – being, he absolutely cannot resist the temptation of sweets.

This coffee shop is one of the only few in the city who actually appeal to his tastes – they sell Chocolate-Peanut Butter Fun Cake, Cherry-Ginger Scones, Blueberry Cheesecake, and his favorite – Strawberry Muffins.

The cashier places the paper bag on the counter with a smile. “Here’s your order, Sir,” she says sweetly, sliding the paper bag closer to his reach.

Hisoka’s whole face brightens at the sight of the two strawberry muffins inside, immediately crumpling the paper bag in his fist. “Thank you,” he says and quickly turns away from the cashier. As he opens the paper bag, the sweet scent of the strawberry muffins waft closer to his nostrils, shoving away the smell of the coffee spreading in the café. He pushes his hand inside and grabs hold of a piece.

He feels ridiculous, being so obsessed with something like this.

But he takes another inhale of the strawberry muffin before he slowly fits the tiny bite in between his teeth. Hisoka squeezes the slit of the paper bag back in his fist and carries the strawberry muffin like a cloud in his lips. It isn’t until he looks up that he sees a man staring right at him – his eyes are the shade of the moon, bare and raw in Hisoka’s throat. His cheeks are the color of razz, his hair neatly tied back.

Hisoka feels like he barely remembers the man standing in front of him, even though he can still memorize everything from the size of his ribs to the world in his fingertips. He can still remember Illumi’s scent – the soap he uses, petrichor on his neck, the way he used to smell like a baby when Hisoka had fit his head against this man’s chest.

He remembers how Illumi looked at him when he left.

“Your strawberry muffin,” Illumi says, watching the muffin pounce on the floor and into his feet. He looks at Hisoka, quickly realizing the man will make no move to get it. “Hisoka,” he says, his voice breaching at the sound of the other man’s name. “Hisoka.”

It feels like this is the first time he’s heard it from Illumi’s lips, like this is the last time he ever will.

Illumi’s breath hitches as he murmurs an, “Okay.” He hesitates for a moment before he slowly bends down to take the strawberry muffin from the floor. But Hisoka rushes over to grab Illumi by the wrist. Illumi’s eyes snap towards him, grounding him inside his skin. Hisoka’s heart shatters from his palms and into Illumi’s open ribs, as if it’s the only place it can sleep in safety.

“Hisoka?” Illumi questions, his eyes staring at the careful fit of Hisoka’s fingers against his skin.

“Don’t tell me to let go,” Hisoka hears himself say through the soft tremble of his mouth.

“But if I do,” Illumi says, his voice trembling like a comet, glancing at the tight grip Hisoka has on his wrist, “will you?”

Hisoka licks his lips and feels his heart clenching like a cliff. He doesn’t know if Illumi Zoldyck still has feelings for him after all these years, if Illumi Zoldyck is still the same man he’s known like the back of his skin, if Illumi Zoldyck will be the one to walk away from him as easily as Hisoka did in his apartment. And then, he realizes that it doesn’t matter if he doesn’t know. Because Hisoka will always love Illumi the way ghosts search for a way back home – blindly, lost.

Swallowing the fear gritting into his throat, softly, he says, “No. I won’t.”

“Then,” Illumi murmurs, slipping his wrist out of Hisoka’s hold and linking their fingers together in a fleeting breath, “Don’t.”

He pulls Illumi into his arms, burying his face in the man’s neck and planting a heaving kiss at his throat – erasing every other planet he had ever loved before.

 

~***~

 

(Now)

 

“I’m sorry for the mess. I hadn’t had the opportunity to clean up.”

Hisoka enters Illumi’s apartment in a daze. His fingers are still latching on to Illumi’s like he’s afraid that the other man will suddenly disappear. His hand is beginning to sweat, but he doesn’t dare loosen his grip. Illumi doesn’t bother to question him about it despite his obvious curiosity. They both know what happened the last they had met, how easily the other had walked away like the relationship never meant anything to them. Instead, he lets Illumi lead him into the nifty interior of his apartment.

His eyes roam from the welcome met placed before the door to the large vase resting beside the shoe rack. Illumi’s apartment has large windows for walls, overseeing the wide scape of the city, the bordering harbor of the connecting sea, and the sunlight kissing their skin. The kitchen is separated only by a counter, thin wooden pillars supporting the faux roof. A white sectional sofa is facing the flat screen TV. A coffee table is complementing the living room with a green glass vase.

“Wow,” Hisoka breathes out.

“Hmm?”

“Your apartment looks like some celebrity showcase,” Hisoka murmurs. “And mine still looks like shit.”

That earns an amused twitch on Illumi’s lips before he finally gives in and lets a smile break over his face. Hisoka hasn’t seen that in years. He doesn’t realize how much he’s missed it until the sight fissures over his teeth. Illumi points to his bedroom and gently slides his fingers out of Hisoka’s grip.

“I want to show you something.”

“Okay.”

Hisoka watches Illumi walk to his bedroom, his eyes moving from the disappearing span of Illumi’s back to the door. He’s tempted to follow Illumi and walk in, just to see if there are signs of another man sleeping on Illumi’s bed. But he finds himself standing in the middle of the living room as he waits for Illumi Zoldyck to come back.

When he does, he sees that Illumi is hiding a hand behind him. The man steps over to Hisoka with a soft grin on his face, a secret found in the corners of his lips. Hisoka narrows his eyes for a moment. “What are you –?” And then, Illumi shows what he’s been hiding – a black kitten as small as his fist, its lazy eyes golden as they swerve to Hisoka’s face.

A purr exits the kitten’s mouth. Illumi holds the kitten in both of his hands and covers himself in the kitten’s stead. “He’s cute, isn’t he?” The kitten reaches for Hisoka’s face and paws the man’s cheeks. “His name is Helios. Like the sun, see?”

Hisoka feels himself smiling before he can stop himself. He curls his hand over the kitten’s head and softly lowers the animal, so that he can see Illumi’s face, instead. “He’s adorable,” he whispers. “Like you.”

Illumi lets the kitten ball himself up in his hand, and he brings it down to floor where it suddenly flees away. He turns to Hisoka for a moment, a blush rising on his cheeks. “Dinner,” he murmurs. “Would you like to stay with me?”

He doesn’t know what Illumi means, if he’s asking to stay for the night itself or if he’s asking Hisoka to never leave him again. But either way, his mouth opens like a fracture over Illumi’s lips, and the other replies in fine greeting, exchanging the letters in between their teeth – like a secret. A promise. Finally.

 

~***~

 

(Now)

 

This is the first time he’s had to cook for anyone else.

He used to have his butlers over to cook him breakfast, until he eventually learned that he was never going to fend for himself unless he learned how to turn on the stove. Gotoh had taught him – it took him more than a few hours to make Illumi actually understand what he was saying. It started with the easier ones: eggs, strips of bacon, white rice, and even the occasional mushroom soup.

But then, he learned how to make Fettucini Alfredo, Penne Al Arrabbiata, Risotto al Gorgonzola, and most of the Italian dishes he actually liked when he was travelling to other countries. Eventually, the butlers didn’t need to visit him in the mornings to prepare his food; and eventually, the maids in the mansion were dismissed after Illumi had finally managed to clean up after himself.

In a way, he kept hoping that it would have somehow brought Hisoka back.

That’s why, when he finishes pouring all the mushrooms into the Brown Rice Risotto, he finds himself looking back at Hisoka, who’s firmly seated at the table. Even after hours of being with him, even after hours of letting himself sink in the heat of the man’s skin – he still can’t believe that Hisoka is here in the flesh. Hisoka has grown taller; the golden flecks of his eyes have gone wilder. Illumi has to curl his hands into fists, just to stop himself from reaching out to Hisoka and asking if he’s real.

Illumi mixes the Risotto in the bowl and finally sets it in the middle of the table. He feels Hisoka’s eyes burning on the curve of his neck, the white of his knuckles, the blue sparks of his wrists. And he feels his heart running like tempests in his ribs, calling Hisoka’s name like a siren about to swim.

 _It’s been so long,_ he thinks, _since Hisoka looked at me like this_.

When Illumi grabs the plates, Hisoka says, his voice swollen and thick, “Will you get tired of me like she always did?”

Illumi’s eyes snap towards him, his heart crumbling the pain found in Hisoka’s voice, his ribs, his teeth. He remembers the way Hisoka had been bleeding before he could have noticed, how Hisoka had told him that it was nothing. He places the plates on the table, gripping the utensils in a fist until he feels the edges cutting into his skin. Illumi’s voice comes out weak and struggling, like his words are about to split.

Carefully, he lays his palms on the table, ignoring the wobble of his knees. “Sometimes,” he says, “I put out two plates, and pretended that you were here, that you came back to me. Sometimes, I put two pillows beside me on the bed, and pretended that you were sleeping next to me on nights I couldn’t stop the nightmares. Sometimes, I just slept on the couch, to ignore your absence. Sometimes,” he continues, his heart charring, “I pretended that you hadn’t left me, that I could still feel your heartbeat even though mine was completely empty.”

A short fuse of silence fills them to the brim – until Hisoka suddenly pushes his seat back and stands on his feet. His shivering fingers frame Illumi’s face, the heels of his palms fitting in the curl of his neck. Illumi opens his lips to let out a shaky breath. His heart is a large lump in his ribs, with only Hisoka to kiss them out in inches.

“Illumi,” he says, his eyes half-lifted, fluttering in the spaces in between them. “Sometimes, I pretended that you were on the other side of the sheets, where I could touch you without flinching.” And then – he presses their lips together, their mouths sharing the same breath, the same secret. “Sometimes, I painted the little parts of you, like your lips, your neck, your ribs – the ones nobody else had ever noticed.” Hisoka dips his head down to kiss the scar of Illumi’s throat, his teeth scraping over skin.

Illumi feels himself swallow, feels his hands clasping over Hisoka’s shirt and unhooking all the buttons, feels his lips closing over Hisoka’s mouth.

“Sometimes,” he says, with Illumi’s heart fleeing to his gut, “I pretended that you still loved me the way you always loved the sun.”

“I did. I do,” he chokes out. “I never stopped.”

 

~***~

 

(Now)

 

“Why did you leave me?”

They’re lying on the bed, their bodies hooked into each other like bruises. The crook of Hisoka’s arm is tied against the nape of his neck, his fingers curled over Illumi’s shoulder blades like a net. He can hear the soft burrow of Hisoka’s heartbeats beneath his ear, listening to it like the rush of an ocean wave before it simmers down into the sea. Illumi looks up at him just as Hisoka brushes a thumb over his cheek.

“Did you love her?” Illumi asks him, ignoring the fire from Hisoka’s skin. “Did she make you complete?”

Hisoka smiles at him, the glow in his eyes fading. The moon is sitting on his shoulders, biting on his bones until Hisoka lets out a visible shudder. “I loved her,” he admits. “At one point, I loved her with my entire being.” At that answer, Illumi looks away, feeling his arms untangle from Hisoka’s body. But Hisoka pulls him back into his chest, forcing Illumi to listen to the haste sound in his ribs.

“But I think,” Hisoka continues, his gaze moving to the window, “I also loved how I could still hold on to my ghosts, even when I was also letting go. I loved that more.” He closes his eyes, a shaky breath escaping his lips. Illumi can feel Hisoka’s heartbeat heaving under the tips of his fingers. “I know why she left me. I know why she had to go.”

Illumi cups his palm over Hisoka’s cheek, slowly turning Hisoka to his direction. Hisoka’s eyelids are still closed, but his lips are pried open as he plants his light over Illumi’s throat.

“Because I fed on my demons,” he says, “even when she tried so hard not let them grow.”

Illumi can only watch the moon filter over Hisoka’s skin. He rolls his arm over Hisoka’s body and makes it sink closer against his. Hisoka’s forehead is pressed against his, so he can clearly see the ache striking over his lashes, the tears on his cheeks, the wound dampened on his lips where he’s bitten hard enough to bleed.

“You still love him. Chrollo. You can’t stop loving him.”

“Yes.”

Hisoka’s fingers rake over the small of Illumi’s back, digging further into his skin like he’s trying to get back the man he’d lost for three years. Illumi feels Hisoka’s chest rise against his before it sinks back into his ribs, trying to catch his breath before he speaks. Illumi can feel every single pain Hisoka has covered from him like a veil, every single ghost Hisoka has swallowed down his throat, every secret that Hisoka couldn’t bear to let Illumi know. This time, when Illumi presses his lips against Hisoka’s mouth, his tongue dabbing over teeth, he searches for the locations of every swell Hisoka has in keeping.

“Tell me,” Illumi says, like a willow has burned into his teeth, “what else you’re hiding.”

Hisoka’s eyes open like a burst, a thought, a constellation. He gathers Illumi in his arms, their bodies tousled beneath the sheets. Their legs are vined together – hip touching hip, exchanging secrets in between their knees, their hearts jumping from ribcage to ribcage.

“Tell me,” Illumi urges, his finger touching Hisoka’s chest in a tremble, “if I’m here.”

Hisoka’s lips curve into a smile as he reaches closer to Illumi’s throat. “And here.” His mouth fractures over Illumi’s shoulder, at the side of his neck, the stiff line of his jaw, the mountain of his collarbones, his stomach, his wrists, the outer portion of his ribs. He says, “Here,” in every kiss, in every second that his lips pass over Illumi’s skin.

“Everywhere,” he murmurs, his voice a stitch over Illumi’s heartbeat. “Everywhere, entirely, like there’s no other way to complete me.”

 

~***~

 

(One year later)

 

Hisoka is still fond of sketching other people.

He has pages of one girl’s freckled collarbones on the train back home; sketches of an old man’s wrinkled hands, dark and spotted; rough drawings of two boys’ moles, each dot found on the same space on their throats, as if they were meant to meet in the same world. The pages in his current sketchbook are nearly filled – artworks of a middle aged woman sitting on the same bench for past two years; drawings of an abandoned coffee shop, with hands imprinted on the windows no matter how often they got washed; and even careless sketches of people he’s seen in his own museum, looking at the paintings and completely oblivious to his actions.

Hisoka still keeps them, even though they’ve already gotten old. Because he knows that years from now, he’ll want to think back to every person he’s seen but hasn’t met. He’ll think about how he used to draw when he was still younger, still with painted fingertips and hands made of ink. Because he knows that when he looks back at this – he’ll remember how he thought of Illumi when he was sketching, in every minute he wasn’t. He’ll remember how Hisoka never forgot about his name.

Not for a moment.

That’s why, when he fishes his keys in his pocket and unlocks the one room in the museum no other person has ever seen, he’s tempted to sit on one of the couches and sketch Illumi’s face. Hisoka’s fingers are tied around his boyfriend’s wrist, leading him into the dark room of his gallery. He closes the door behind them without flickering the lights on. His heart is beating excitement, but his hands are getting nervous.

“Hisoka?” Illumi’s hand closes over Hisoka’s shoulder. Even if they can’t see each other, Hisoka can almost see his look of concern. “Are you all right?”

“Close your eyes.”

He feels ridiculous, saying that even though they’re enveloped in darkness. But when Hisoka flutters his fingertips over Illumi’s eyelids, he can tell that they’re already clamped shut as instructed. Hisoka swallows the lump down his throat and begins to feel for the switch, flicking it upwards to blanket them in light.

Illumi flinches at the sudden fade of the darkness, but he lets Hisoka loosen his grip.

Taking a shuddering breath, Hisoka lets go of Illumi’s wrist and ties his arms together. “Okay. Open them.”

Illumi does as he’s told, immediately facing the large painting hung in the middle of the wall. Hisoka can hear Illumi’s breath hitch in his throat, as if every word he’s ever thought of has already been flushed down his stomach. Hisoka closes his eyes for a brief moment, letting his fear shrink back into his teeth before he opens his eyes again to see Illumi’s face.

But what he doesn’t expect is to find the man utterly speechless, his cheeks damp, the corners of his eyes slightly wet.

Alarm rushes through him. He pushes himself off the wall to sprint to where Illumi is standing, just a few meters away from the painting. He clamps his hand over Illumi’s back and forces the man to face him. But Illumi’s dark eyes are brightened and glassy, every word he couldn’t say prickling through his lips.

Hisoka’s voice comes as quiet as a ship. “Do you – do you not like it?"

Illumi doesn’t answer immediately. He lets the silence snuggle in between them. Hisoka counts the seconds before Illumi can answer, the number of beats before Illumi finally closes his hand over Hisoka’s ribs. It’s like he’s listening to Hisoka’s breathing through his skin. And – with deprived caution, Hisoka leans down to connect their mouths together in a desperate kiss. Their hands seize over skin; when they touch, it feels like they’re burning the seconds lost in between them.

“Hisoka.” A breath. A touch. A secret.

The painting is one of Illumi – his back turned towards the canvas, his hair cascading down one side of his shoulder. A few strands are straying away, kissing the roots of his spine. Wings are pelted over the span of his back – blue and crystalline, with shards of jasper glinting on the palette. Illumi’s face is half-shown; his eyelashes long and perfectly curled like a willow.

“Illumi.” A tremor. A promise. A home. “Is there – a part of me that isn’t yours?”

Underneath is Hisoka’s signature, with the title: _Belong._

Hushed. Hopeful. “No.”

 

~***~

 

(Two years later)

 

Finally, Illumi has already gotten used to riding in a train.

Mornings, he’s learned, are usually the worst. Trains are apparently the most used means of transportation when going into the city. Sometimes, Illumi has to squeeze himself in a tightly packed cabin in order to arrive at the theater in a timely manner. Other times, he has to sit next to a sexual molester – most, if not all, have already been punched by his boyfriend. Of course, he doesn’t expect anything less from Hisoka, considering his rather healthy possessiveness.

However, train rides in the afternoons – well, they’re one of the only things he can actually look forward to.

There are many reasons. One of which is that trains are not as crowded as they usually are in the mornings. Illumi can finally sit down in peace; sometimes, he can stretch his tired legs on the bench if no one is looking. But that’s not what he loves the most about riding trains in the afternoon. No, it’s meeting with Hisoka at the train station by four o’clock. Sometimes, it’s meeting Hisoka near the ice cream shop they both love, or at the food stand near the station, where they sell Watame, Yaki Imo, and their favorite: Jaga Bata.

It’s holding hands as they walk to the train station and into the cabin, sitting together on the same bench as they overlook the skies streaming over the city. Sometimes, they’re the color of peaches – slightly pink behind the buildings before it turns into a wild shade of orange. Sometimes, they look like they’re making love to the sea – lightly coated with cyan, and then turning far deep. Sometimes, they’re lilies – catching lavender in his palms and giving them to Hisoka when he falls asleep.

And –

Hisoka always falls asleep. In fact, he’s sleeping now. His head is resting on Illumi’s shoulder, his breathing light and easy. But their hands are still interlinked, as if Hisoka is unable to let go of his thoughts even when he’s already sleeping. And Illumi is always brushing his thumb over Hisoka’s knuckles, soothing him in his slumber. It’s always like this, and Illumi always falls in love with it.

He watches the sky become three different colors at once as the train passes from shadow to shadow. For a moment, it looks like spring, and then it doesn’t, and then it looks like morning in the summer when he wakes. But every time Illumi looks at the same sky, he thinks of one thing.

 

~***~

 

_He sees the sun up close - in every morning when he wakes; the second he falls asleep; when he takes a shower, pressed against Hisoka’s body. During the breakfasts, the lunches, the dinners where Hisoka doesn’t burn what he’s cooking (or when he burns it regardless). The time Hisoka tasted Cappuccino for the first time and actually liked it. On the nights they have sex, teeth begging scratches, mouths grabbing moans._

_He sees the sun up close._

_He sees the sun._

_He sees the sun._

“Illumi. Wake up.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you actually read the fic, I thank you for your patience and your support. If you would like to show me that support, please leave me a kudos or a simple review. It would mean a lot to me. For sure. 
> 
> To the readers who have supported me until the end, this one is for you. Thank you.


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